


bitter salt

by lances



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Club AU, Drinking, Flirting, Fluff, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Miscommunication, Pining Shiro (Voltron), Strangers to Lovers, all characters are 18+, lance in croptops, lance is incredibly pretty and shiro cant handle it, neon body paint is my jam at clubs, shiro's ptsd is here too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-11-05 13:12:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11014134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lances/pseuds/lances
Summary: Despite himself, Shiro let out a string of low chuckles, gravelly from the liquor. It was worth it, because the man perked at the sound, turning to him with an arched brow and crooked smile.“There it is,”he breathed, and Shiro didn’t hear it over the music, but he could drunkenly make out the words mouthed at him. The man’s body, radiating heat under a loose cropped shirt, got impossibly close—closer. This time he spoke directly into Shiro’s bubble, eyes half-mast, “you should do that more often, sweetheart, lookshellagood on you.”(matt takes shiro to a club to help him forget and let loose; shiro decides neon body paint looks incredibly good on that one pretty stranger)





	1. body paint

**Author's Note:**

> i have no idea where this came from
> 
>  _when i wake up all alone_  
>  and i'm thinking of your skin  
> i remember, i remember what you told me—
> 
>    
> strangers, halsey ft. lauren jauregui

Shiro looked down, tracing the bottom of an empty shot-glass, the lights of the club bouncing off its convex. This was the third night he found himself in this situation, sitting at the bar, the heat soaking into his skin, sweat beading down the dips and divots of his back. The night was young in its own right, full of bodies swaying to a manufactured beat, with the sound throbbing in Shiro’s temple. This was so far out of his comfort zone, he kept asking himself why he even bothered—none of this changed anything, and none of it made him forget much.

He rolled the small glass between his fingers, enjoying its coolness, worshiping the burn that still scarred his throat. Getting drunk was some comfort, even if it wasn’t the _goal_ of going out. Matt had dragged him out for ‘a fun night’, which ended up with Shiro nursing drinks and Matt shifting uncomfortably by his side. It became something of a routine since, both of them finding the club with ease every weekend—Matt hoping Shiro would finally loosen up, and Shiro praying Matt would finally back off.

“That’s, what, your eighth?” he felt a hand press against his back, Matt’s voice breathed against his ear, “Christ, Shiro.”

Not taking his eyes off the shot glass, he hailed his deadpan like religion. “Ninth, actually.”

Shiro genuinely hated his tolerance. He wanted to be drunk, wanted to think the blue-lit bar was pretty instead of gaudy, wanted to take up the offer of everyone who propositioned him with a smile, wanted to feel his joints roll to electronica; Shiro just wanted to _forget_ , to let loose and pretend, if only for a single night, that he didn’t wear a scar across his face. Tequila tended to do just that, feeding off an empty stomach, breaking his sobriety and lighting a hearth at the pit of his stomach—all he had to do was wait. Even if it took all night, he’d get there.

Matt scoffed, coming to sit next to him again, hair a mess of uncut auburn that fell into his face. “You’re brutal, Shirogane. I think I’m feeling it already, and I just had two.”

Shiro leant forward, letting his elbows slide against the ebony bar. It was sleek looking, waxed like modern marble, and cut sharp against his chest. The place was high-end, that much he knew—perfect for someone looking to waste cash and credit; the pretty cars lining the road outside were enough of a giveaway. He cocked his head, resting it onto his shoulder to look at Matt with a sleepy smile, “You get drunk off half a glass of rum, I don’t know why you sound so surprised, Holt.”

“First,” Matt held up an obnoxious finger, high next to his face, already dyed with the tell-tale flush of a damn lightweight, “you’re a rude-ass piece of shit, and I don’t know why we’re friends. Second, not all of us have—” he wrapped a palm around Shiro’s arm, over the black fabric of his button up, “— _mass_ to protect us from alcohol.”

Shiro found himself laughing along, leaning in closer to actually hear him over the bass. It was true, though—Matt was a lot leaner, a lot smaller, the angles of his body tucked and lost in a smokey magenta crewneck. Shiro half-wondered through the building haze of intoxication how the man hadn’t _melted_ yet. “Yeah, you’re a twig.”

“And you’re the worst. Besides, this is all part of the sleek and sexy swimmer aesthetic,” Matt ran a palm down his chest, playful and sarcastic, his wink exaggerated and his tongue caught between straight teeth, “you’re just uncultured swine.”

Shiro allowed himself a laugh, low and heavy under his tongue, fingers pushing the glass away in favor of cradling his head in one palm, body lax against the counter. “ _Right._ Matt, we both know you’d die as a professional athlete. Your stamina leaves a ton to be desired.”

“I said aesthetic, alright?” he flicked Shiro’s forehead, even if it didn’t have much of an effect on the man. Matt’s breath stunk of sweet pineapple malibu; _I was right, the loser’s drunk off rum, of all things._ “Even I know my limits, okay? I’m a poser, but at least I look fantastic.”

Shiro smiled, wholly amused, “Yeah, the badass holding the fruity beach drink—gets me hot and bothered.”

Matt’s eyes, a rich caramel dyed purple by the harsh overheads, fell to half-mast. “You’re so mean when you’re tipsy. Hell, you’re never this mean to _Keith._ I think he’s still convinced you don’t curse and are picture perfect or some shit.”

“I am picture perfect.”

“Picture perfect Pinocchio, that is.” Matt smirked, “Alliteration, for your lying ass.”

Shiro’s head thudded onto the bar, right by the glass and abandoned lemon, landing with a devastated groan. His voice was mildly muffled, but louder than it had been, “God, you fucking smartass. Why do you remember that word almost drunk?”

“Because unlike you, I’m smart _and_ attractive.”

“Matt,” Shiro leant back, sitting up entirely, a little disheveled. He threw his friend an exasperated smile, unable to stop the laugh that left him, “Please shut up _._ ”

Matt’s grin softened when he bumped their shoulders together side-long; it was something of a truce, Shiro guessed. After all, while their friendship was fast-paced and witty, Matt was never this jovial normally. He tended more towards intelligent conversation, chilled and calculated; _that_ thought slammed into Shiro’s hollow lungs harder than the beat around him. This was Matt was exaggerating fronts. That was the whole reason they were here, to have Shiro forget, to have him smile. It worked, usually, until that moment of realization brought him down from orbit to stiff gravity.

_Don’t think of space._

Matt seemed to sense the shift in mood, but he didn’t try to change it, instead he chose to sit quietly on his barstool, a sigh on his lips. Shiro felt unbelievably guilty. The man had been trying so hard, and nothing seemed to work; with a deep exhale, his eyes found the bartender, distracting himself with colors and movement that he could barely keep up with. She was a pretty woman, that much he could make out through the swift shifts, the alcohol finally settling in his hollow gut. Skilled, rolling tumblers and ice and open bottles with lithe fingers and agility, well enough to draw a crowd.

“She’s good,” Matt finally hummed, breaking the silence that folded its way between them.

“Yeah,” Shiro agreed, watching the flurry of white hair with interest.

“Why don’t you talk to her?”

Shiro’s slurring thoughts stopped for a heartbeat, eyes rolling to their corners to stare at him. “What?”

“Talk, to, _her_ ,” Matt punctuated every word with a gesture, from a swirling finger, to open palms, to pointing. If there was one thing a Holt wasn’t, Shiro decided, it was subtle. For all his intelligence, Matt was embarrassing.

He shook his head, looking down at the metallic underarm of his prosthetic, the weight of insecurity throbbing in his mind. Hooking up wouldn’t help him, not that anyone would _want_ to. “Yeah, no, that’s not happening.”

Matt glared half-heartedly, cocking his head, “Why not? You’ve had like three people come up to you already, and its only midnight. Let _loose_ , Takashi, give yourself that much.”

The last part was gentle, encouraging, pressed into his space, just loud enough to crowd the dull throbbing lining his lungs. Shiro frowned, looking away to stare at the bartender, more calculative and cynical than he had before. She seemed embedded into her surroundings, the light seeping into the folds of her clothes, body moving with the beat as she poured drinks and rolled color between her quick-moving palms, grabbing the necks of rounded bottles with ease. Her face— _she’s definitely something—_ held in a set of straight-lines looked closed off, unamused, even though her shoulders rose and fell to the beat.

The blue swam under her skin, a pretty, rich ebony that shone with a single perfumed layer of sweat. She appeared confident, at ease and incredibly mythic to someone like Shiro, who felt like he was staring at her through tinted glass. That was the issue, though, wasn’t it—that majestic aura that made him want to watch her more than he wanted to touch her. He was content trailing her sways, but he felt no inclination past that; he felt no desire to hold her. It was like staring at a queen in slacks and construction boots. Shiro cracked a bitter smile at the thought.

His heart nearly stopped when her stare— _blue, lilac, magenta—_ seemed to find his. For a minute, his drunken mind really wanted to believe she was more than human, that her eyes were kaleidoscopic and that it wasn’t a trick of the overheads. She seemed to give him a knowing smile, her almost empathetic gaze flicking between Matt’s hand on his shoulder, and Shiro’s own eyes. After an eternity, he let his stare fall when he saw her approach.

“ _This is your chance, mate—betting on ya!”_ Matt hissed in his ear, excited and drunk, his voice too loud to be considered subtle. He slapped Shiro’s back before slinking off, whether that was to the bathroom or the dance floor, Shiro didn’t bother checking. Matt was a mess sometimes, and plenty difficult to keep up with when he was like this. Instead, he let his eyes rise to the bartender, grinning at him as she wiped down a glass.

She gestured to the tender on the opposite of the bar, tapping her wrist twice, before turning back to him. “You’re welcome. I figured you needed to catch a break.”

Shiro smiled up at her, grateful and a little sheepish, “Ah, you heard that?”

“Your friend’s not too quiet, I’m afraid.” She laughed, sitting against the ebony, thigh left resting there. Her accent was pronounced, distinct in the way it fell heavy on certain syllables and gentle on others, suiting her incredibly well for some reason. “It’s Allura, by the way.”

“Shirogane.”

Allura nodded, setting down the glass carefully by her bent knee, setting the rag across it. “So what’s your story, Shirogane. Usually people who sit that long, glass in hand at a place like this, have something to get off their chest.”

Shiro scoffed, looking off to the side at the hoards of people rocking back and forth, bodies rhythmic. It was good to know he looked as out of place as he felt. Allura didn’t seem bothered by his silence, and instead stayed quiet when he took his time to respond. Shiro sighed, using his prosthetic to gesture to the scar across his face, “It’s long and a little tragic for a night like this.”

“Seems that way,” Allura hummed, a seasoned cock to her eyebrows. “But it already passed, already happened, right?”

Shiro looked up at her, his expression a mix of curiosity and incredulity. “If the phantom pains are much to go by, I’d say, yeah, it did.”

“Are you feeling any pain now?”

“No?”

That was the answer she was looking for, Shiro could tell from the way her pretty face lit up, full lips wide with teeth. “What’re you feeling, then?”

“Not drunk enough,” was the immediate response.

There was a moment of shared silence before the genuine laughter got to them, weaving past his tongue before Shiro could really stop it. It was easy to talk to Allura, but he figured charismatic people had that innate power, that ability to have people effortlessly gravitate towards, _or maybe its a bartender thing._ Shiro didn’t mind it, a little tired of Matt’s speed, and in need of someone more laid back.

“Now _that_ ,” Allura came down from her high with a gentle set of chuckles, playful as she pointed at him, her fingers lined with silver and stone, “is something I can help you with.”

Shiro leant forward, his elbows resting against the bar as she slid off, not too far, but far enough to slide a hand around a liquor bottle. He could hear the way her rings clicked against the glass, how those set of _tinks_ made her even more likable. Shiro had no idea why that was, but he figured if it was nice enough to leave him thinking, then it was certainly _something._ Before he knew it, a set of six shot glasses marked the space between them, and Shiro felt the burn of alcohol in his nose before his lips came anywhere near them.

“Saw you downing tequila earlier, thought I’d run with it,” Allura shrugged, “I want you to have a good time, which definitely doesn’t involve being bent in half over the toilet at the end of the night because you mixed strong drinks.”

“ _Six?_ ” his laugh was a little incredulous, lined with tipsy happiness despite his disbelief, “You don’t want me to be sick in the morning—you want to completely kill me.”

“Never,” her smirk tugged at both ends, automatic and absolutely symmetrical, “don’t worry, half of these are for me.”

“Drinking on the job?” he teased.

“I get _paid_ to drink on the job, given what I have to deal with.”

“Well, can’t really argue with that.” Shiro lifted his arms in mock surrender, before letting them fall crossed, body leaning back in his seat. “How many puking couples have you witnessed?”

“Enough to see green in my sleep,” Allura rolled her eyes, turning away briefly to dig around for salt and lime, expertly finding them a moment after, “Knowing your limits seems too old fashioned these days, apparently.”

Shiro smirked when she twisted on her heel, bracing her self, “so is buying water, I figure?”

“Shirogane, you’re twelve centuries too late and far too proper if you think anyone here would willingly spend money on mineral water. You’re at a _club_.”

“Fair,” he laughed, watching her tap some salt onto the break of her thumb, the white crystals a pretty contrast against dark skin, “and just Shiro, please.”

Grinning she stretched her arm forward, handing him the small shaker, “alright, _just Shiro_ , are you ready to get wasted? Because I’m going to get you wasted, and get _paid_ doing it.”

He grinned, salt cool against his skin.  
  


* * *

  
Shiro wondered why he didn’t go for Matt’s sissy drinks.

They tasted nice, looked nice, and smelt like something off a tropical coastline, painted like sunsets and open ocean; pale liquor had none of those qualities. It went down like bitter poison and smelt about the same, carving out lines of scorched skin into the sensitive outline of his throat, charring his tongue and staining his teeth and _staying_ there for what seemed like an eternity until his fingers wrapped themselves around the next. One thing pretty malibus couldn’t do, though, he learnt, head tipped and breath terse, was _this._

They couldn’t fit that throbbing in his temple, couldn’t bring a flushed readiness to his skin, couldn’t breathe life into a dead man.

His body ached in all the right places, rolling lax, and Shiro had long since lost count of the drinks Allura had mixed and set and served. The music seemed louder, his mind quieter, and the pleasant pulse of alcohol in his bloodstream seemed to sate his smiles and his laughs, leaving him to briefly wonder how Allura could hold her liquor like that—how she was still standing. Logic didn’t click, and Shiro had already forgotten about the countless drinks Matt had ordered him before; _maybe she really is unreal._

_Really unreal._

A childish, fond part of Shiro’s mind wanted to be her friend.

He pressed a cheek against his manufactured palm, legs curled up against the poll of the barstool, fingers coiled around the stem of a drink. The countertop felt cool against his bare arm, a slight relief from the heat around him, full of deep exhales and warm skin. The feeling was a loose one that reminded Shiro of his days in college a couple of years ago—the frat parties, the waking up in a stranger’s bed, the drinking before noon—no, he didn’t want to relive the stress or the pressure, but he would gladly give his other arm to re-experience that relief and partial lack of responsibility.

He rolled the bottom of the drink, half-empty as he sipped at it, just low in alcohol enough to cool down those rounds of tequila. Shiro wasn’t completely inebriated, his eyes still able to tell where Allura ended and where she started, and his mind still able to process her movements. She managed to juggle him and work nicely, serving others with that diplomatic pokerface, before turning to him with a small, barely noticeable look of amusement.

He watched her shoulders as they tucked, pouring in a bailey’s for a woman at the end of the bar.

“ _Hell yeah, mami!”_

The voice was louder than the music, and Shiro’s mind didn’t really attempt processing it, too slow and paced, too lethargic to let that noise anywhere near him. Sooner rather than later, Shiro realized he really didn’t have a choice in the matter, the smell of coconut and whiskey rolling around his body, pouring into his personal space, brushing against the dull coast of his thoughts.

Before he was able to shove the voice and its owner to the back of his thoughts, a palm traced his own. Shiro only caught a brief and fleeting glimpse of bronze, a hand traced in blue and magenta, the paint neon-lit under flickering lights, color wheeling over the roll of a narrow wrist, with sharp-angled fingers—

—that took his drink right out of his hand.

Shiro blinked.

He stared at his empty grip for a long moment, trying to understand what the fuck just happened.

“No, _no_ —you don’t!” Allura’s voice was what made Shiro finally glance up. She looked entertained for the most part, her ringed hand landing over the top of a glass Shiro recognized as his own. She gently pushed it down, laughing when the stranger whined, “You’ve had _plenty,_ that’s enough.”

“Enough is for the _weak_ , ‘llua, _more_ on the other hand—”

 _He’s pretty,_ was the first coherent thought that formed in Shiro’s head, and for some reason, it didn’t startle him. Maybe it was his drunkenness, or maybe it was because his eyes were too preoccupied lining a sharp profile for him to give a single shit what was appropriate and what wasn’t. The stranger was something worth marveling at, with a peaked nose tipped in sun-spot freckles and specks of gold, a natural kohl lining the slew of electric eyes; _do all people here have eyes that glow?_

The vibrant set of paints on his skin only served to make him seem more radiant, prettier, _alive_. Shiro watched them argue, staring at the stretch of tangerine lips and how they moved, quick and loud, against a cinnamon tan. The spike of attraction in his gut was clear as a moonless night, so different from the awe he’d felt when he saw Allura. It made Shiro want to pound his head against the bar.

But he didn’t.

His slow mind didn’t do much other than have his body slouch a little further, back convex against black fabric. Shiro felt his heart in his throat when the man’s eyes turned to him, only a little cloudy considering how drunk he was acting. They had a certain shrewdness to them, curious, before they lidded; the expression was unmistakable.

_Playful._

“Man, I shoulda stole the stranger, not the drink,” he purred, and Shiro’s jaw stuttered, not knowing how to respond.

Allura saved him the trouble, “You shouldn’t steal random people’s drinks period, darling. You don’t know what’s in them.”

 _Darling?_ Shiro’s gaze followed the man’s features. The same paint that wrapped around tan arms, traced the terrain of his face, dotting under his eyes, brushing down his forehead, unevenly smudged and tapered all the way down the sharp wave of his nose; _finger painted_. It suited him, highlighted the gold swimming under his cheeks and over the hill of his exposed collarbones. His expression contorted into a frown, right before he leant even further into Shiro’s space, “ _Look_ at him, Allura, he’s harmless! Well maybe not _harmless,_ harmless _, heh,_ if you catch my drif—!”

Shiro felt stupid for thinking the slur, drunk and _flirty_ , sounded nice. Despite himself, he let out a string of low chuckles, gravelly from the liquor. It was worth it, because the man perked at the sound, turning to him with an arched brow and crooked smile.

“ _There it is_ ,” he breathed, and Shiro didn’t hear it over the music, but he could drunkenly make out the words mouthed at him. The man’s body, radiating heat under a loose cropped shirt, got impossibly close— _closer_. This time he spoke directly into Shiro’s bubble, eyes half-mast, “you should do that more often, sweetheart, looks _hella_ good on you.”

Shiro swallowed at the feel of breath against his face.

“ _Gods_ , Lance,” Allura scoffed, “I see you’re still shameless.”

They both turned to her, watching the way she expertly slid a drink to some patron, not even glancing at it. _Lance, huh?_

“Sorry ‘llura, but like,” he raised an eyebrow, expression intoxicated as he nodded his head towards Shiro, “‘f you’re not gonna tap that, I’mma at least _try.”_

“Key word being _try_ ,” she fixed Lance with an amused smile, before turning on her heel, a hand waved over her shoulder, and a brief _‘good luck, Shirogane!’_ pitched over the music.

Shiro huffed out a laugh, talking more to himself than anyone else, “yeah, sure.”

The music gradually died around them, the beat shifting under the DJ’s palms. There was a moment of calm, the eye of the storm, where Shiro allowed himself that one drunken thought that's been floating around in his head alongside the haze: _he’s pretty and he smells like coconut._

Lance didn’t seem aware of Shiro’s silence, shifting around, adjusting what he could of his clothes and his hair in the reflective ceiling of the bar area. He looked too wasted to manage it, but it didn’t stop Shiro from tracing the smooth movements with his eyes; Lance was far from the first person to flirt with him that night. Fourth, if he really bothered counting—but this man was different. He made Shiro _feel_ different, and for a second, he thought maybe it was the nonchalance Lance used when he flirted, as if it was second-nature to him.

He wasn’t trying so much to impress Shiro as much as he was having fun, being _genuine_.

The idea was incredibly attractive, and while he was dying to cling onto it, one glance down reminded him exactly why he couldn’t. Lance was playing around, and no one that looked or acted like Lance would ever want someone like Shiro— _Shirogane_ , with his morbid humor and his fucking _prosthetic._

The music seemed to pick up, and with it the heat and Lance’s rolling shoulders. Shiro wasn’t looking at him anymore, eyes stitched to the metal arm— _a state of the art gift,_ they’d told him, _an apology._ It didn’t matter, though, because the energy that shot like lightning through Lance was enough to fill Shiro’s peripheral; he could feel that excitement hit in waves.

“ _Ugh,_ I _love_ this song!”

Shiro smirked, chancing a glance up at those hooded eyes, “Something tells me you like every song that plays.”

Lance was still standing, and took the opportunity to hip-check Shiro to the beat, his lip bitten, eyes lit with a certain high. “When they make me wanna dance like _this_ , hell yeah.”

Chuckling, Shiro leant back in his seat, cocking a head at Lance, his smile lazy and a little exhausted. “Just go dance, then.”

“You blowin’ me off, gorgeous?” Lance raised one eyebrow, placing a hand onto his jutted hip. Shiro’s gaze grazed down to deep tint of exposed skin, how manicured nails beat nicely against brown. By the time his eyes found Lance’s once more, the man had already broken out into a massive shit-eating grin, leaning down to speak over the music. “Come _with_ me.”

“I don’t dance,” Shiro replied looking away, more flippant than apologetic.

Two long arms wove themselves sideways around his neck, palms rolling against his shoulder as Lance leant down, body arched and his warmth burning when he pressed his painted forehead to Shiro’s temple. He could feel that pretty paint smear against his face, much like he felt the peak of Lance’s needle-sharp nose press a divot into his cheek. _He’s pretty and he smells like coconut._ The moment he started breathing his words, lips brushing the curve of Shiro’s jaw—was the same moment Shiro stopped breathing all together.

 _“Dance with me.”_  


	2. names

Shiro discovered two things, too quickly: one, Lance was probably incredibly dangerous sober; two, he looked like the type who sobered up _incredibly fast._

No, Lance wasn’t entirely rid of the alcohol in his system, but then and there under sweltering lights and broken beats, Shiro recognized the intimidating lid to his eyes, lacking the milky overlay of intoxication. The man had initially dragged him off the barstool before Shiro could really respond, and the feel of that slight palm in his rendered whatever argument he’d prepared void, especially when Lance’s body had begun moving long before they’d reached the floor. _Gods,_ the lights there made everything about him _glow._

Shiro felt out of place, dull and unmoving by mean of comparison.

Lance was in his element, he was created for this, the music around them throbbing and the paint on his skin tracing every movement his body made, highlighting the intentional movements, complementing them; under _these_ overheads— ones meant for fun rather than sight, unlike the bar’s—made the lines on Lance’s body endlessly more vibrant, flickering, shining with a coconut scented sheen of sweat. Shiro moved, slow and steady, keeping up with the paced bass rather than the fast overlaid electronica, too distracted by the high roll of Lance’s hips to go for anything more intricate.

And, _fuck,_ did Lance know how to dance.

He wasn’t anything like the man who’d brushed Shiro’s shoulder, or the girl who’d ground into him— _no._ He didn’t sway and grate, he swung and clicked, hip to hip, arms plaited over his head; holding Lance wasn’t like holding a wave, his body wasn’t _undulating,_ it was fast and practiced and every joint bled with unhidden mastery. Shiro, having had his fair share of clubbing experiences _knew,_ he fucking _knew,_ this was no drunken dancing. Lance knew what he was doing. 

_“You’re thinkin’ too loud!”_

Lance yelled over the music, a bitten smirk tearing itself into his expression. He had, surprisingly, kept his distance for the most part, giving Shiro the room to adjust—but slowly, the more alcohol faded the people around them, the closer to Shiro’s body he got, the more his heat became calculated, the more his gaze sharpened in on Shiro with that telltale desire that made it a little hard to breathe for a drunk man.

Shiro was terrified, in all the best ways.

“Uh, _sorry—”_

Lance let his arms, once high in the air and knotted at the wrist, halo onto Shiro’s shoulders, tugging him down— _close. Fuck,_ Shiro swallowed to the sound of Lance’s breathing, faint but interval, by his ear, “Loosen _up_ , sweetheart.”

He fell back, but kept his arms in place, studying Shiro’s expression with a cocked head, hips calmed to a gentle stir, close enough for their thighs to brush but far enough for Shiro to study the movement with his eyes. He didn’t look down, though, Lance’s dissatisfaction keeping him rooted. Shiro felt insecurity claw at him, the irrational fear making him loosen his grip on Lance’s denim-clad hips— _when did that happen?—_ and he prayed it didn’t show on his face.

The beat picked up, and their stillness went unnoticed. Lance hadn’t let go of him yet, and as Shiro looked down at him, their bodies a breath’s proximity from each other, he didn’t want to pull away, not yet— _not ever,_ the drunken part of his mind supplied. It was a good sign, Lance staying this close, and Shiro would treat it like that. With a conscious effort, he let the alcohol rule his movements instead of his worry.

 _Loosen up._  

Shiro’s hands flattened upward, dipping into the arch of a copper back, the skin single-suit and smooth, its dampness warm against his fingers. Lance seemed to fold into the movement, trembling gently at the cold-tips of the prosthetic, head tipping back as he was pulled in, body rolling into dance again. Shiro watched how _easily_ Lance seemed to regain composure—or maybe it was lose composure, he didn’t know. What he _did_ know by heart, was the pretty rise of that adam’s apple.

Taking the leap, tendons loose, Shiro leant forward, breath sticky against the skin of Lance’s throat, nose lining the length of an alabaster pillar. For the first time that night, Lance’s breath faltered—

—and Shiro felt it.

He _felt_ it.

Felt that hitch, one that paired itself with the fingers scraping along the back of his scalp, looking for something to grip. He wasn’t sure what it was, confidence or pride or the never-fading hiss of all the drinks Allura had given him, but Shiro found himself moving with the practiced movements Lance began with renewed excitement. _It’s because I’m responding,_ Shiro breathed, Lance’s head tilting forward again, eyes half-mast, tongue caught between his teeth. _He’s into this, too._

It was hard to keep up with Lance, especially when he moved to his own beat against Shiro’s chest, fingers loose and brushing along the skin of his nape. The heat between them seemed to rise tenfold, burning like the alcohol in their system. Shiro let himself lean into it, let their joints click in all the right places, with Lance’s long legs fitted into his, the smell of coconut overcome by the stain of whiskey on his breath; Shiro would’ve breathed it in, but it was hard to breathe _period._

He wondered if everything Lance did left people feeling like this.

Out of breath.

“ _You’re actually not half-bad at this_ , _mami—”_ Lance panted into his neck, drawing a hand through Shiro’s hair. His thumb fell to trace Shiro’s rabbit run heartbeat, right under the break of his jaw. “Not bad _at all.”_

Shiro allowed himself a chuckle, a little drunk, his palms moving along the bare terrain of a tan back, “Yeah?”

Lance hummed, the sound rich and full under the music. Shiro felt it against his skin more than he heard it, his mind noting the slight tremble of Lance’s lips; _goddess, since when have I ever gotten this way about a goddamn_ stranger?

The song shifted, and Shiro shoved that thought to the back of his mind when Lance pulled his head away during the pause, looking up at him. The paint had smeared, no longer in the pretty lines and dots that shiro had seen, instead, fading in areas, trailing down his jaw and across his cheek, still glistening. Disheveled, was one word to describe him, short hair a mess of sharp starts and— _is that glitter?—_ curling edges. Seeing Lance up close was different, though, from the spare moment at the bar or Shiro’s guilty focus on the man’s body.

Lance’s face was its own brand of pretty, masculinity mixed into the remains of subtle eyeliner.

“Never danced with someone this cute,” Lance cocked his head, not moving to remove Shiro’s hands from his body; he didn’t take his palms off Shiro’s neck, either. “How the hell’re you here on your own?”

It was one of those moments where Shiro desperately wanted the feeling in his hand back. “I could ask you the same question.”

Lance laughed at that, an honest to god _chirrup_ that had Shiro pressing down his smile. He nudged Shiro’s cheek with his nose, “And who says I’m here alone? My girlfriend could be right around the corner, waiting to beat you up.”

“A girl that could beat me up?” Shiro leant into the gesture, “Count me in on that, please.”

Lance’s eyes widened in time with a broad, open mouthed grin, his victorious laugh a little pitched, “Oh my _god!_ I knew you weren’t harmless, I _knew_ —”

When the beat started up again, in sync with that wide smile and Shiro’s amused chuckle, he twisted Lance in his arms before the man could finish the sentence, feeling the sharp jut of peaked shoulder-blades against his chest. They tied their arms around Lance’s torso, not really moving properly to the thrumming music, laughing through their drunkenness instead.

 _Maybe this is what Matt was talking about,_ was a wandering thought that vanished the minute they started dancing again, Lance coming down from his amused high, hips pressing backwards into Shiro’s at relaxed intervals, _letting loose._

And it was just like that, Lance dropped his smile into his body instead, rolling into Shiro, body sticky sweet and slow moving. The music was different this time around, quick soundboard sounds traded in for deep and pronounced bass, beat ricocheting against the walls of Shiro’s lungs, leaving his breathing terse and timed. Lance felt _good,_ felt good tucked against him, moving like it was the most natural thing for him to do with a man he just met.

Shiro didn’t question it.

He didn’t question when Lance’s head lolled back against his shoulder, and Shiro didn’t question when fingers left burning trails of hot ice along his forearm. Hot ice—the _only_ possible way to define Lance. He radiated heat, but everything about him made Shiro think of water, of ice or waves or any _blue_ shit that left a pleasant, refreshing coolness in his bones. No, he was not the best at waxing poetic, but he supposed that was fine when one was drunk off his ass, gambling with his sanity as a pretty guy danced this close to him.

And then Lance's form _dipped,_ thighs strong and rounded, falling and eager, as he pressed himself back into Shiro’s lap, his body slow to rise. If breath failed him before, Shiro wasn’t quite sure he’d ever remember how to ‘inhale, exhale’—not with the look tucked over Lance’s shoulder, hooded and intentional, his body a perpendicular torrent against Shiro’s own; the smirk was in place until the man rose entirely, letting their upper bodies slot again.

Lance’s arms wove above them before settling backwards onto Shiro’s shoulders, palms cradling his sharp jaw as he tugged him down by the neck, pressing Shiro’s face into the expanse of his coconut-scented throat.

_Goddess help me._

Those impossibly electric eyes stared down his startled expression—serious and still in comparison to his brand of dumb and drunk—and when Lance leant in, purring his words, lips working along the curved shell of Shiro’s ear—“ _Do you need any_ more _of an invitation?”_

Shiro’s mind broke.  


* * *

  
The minute Lance had looked at him and _asked_ , Shiro obediently dropped his lips to the curve of a copper throat, lips chapped with alcohol rolling over the damp expanse with ease, brushing words and chuckles and open mouth presses against skin. It hadn’t lasted, Lance didn’t give it the chance to, before he turned and tore Shiro away from the floor with hitched breath and blatant eagerness.

Shiro let Lance drag him.

It seemed like a common theme for the night, the man’s fingers tied around his wrist and his smile in place. Shiro couldn’t say he minded it, his loose body following Lance with ease as the other wove through the crowd of people, looking back at him with a knowing grin ever so often; it made a knot settle in the pit of Shiro’s stomach, and he couldn’t decide whether or not he liked the feeling.

But he was _curious_ and the taste of Lance’s skin— _neck, paint, cologne—_ was still heavy on his tongue, halfway like poison.

Shiro couldn’t help but wonder what _all_ of Lance tasted like.

The club seemed more lively than when he’d first walked in with Matt, or at least it seemed that way, the colors flying across Shiro’s vision in waves of people and overheads, the heat making his hair a little slicker than it usually was. The throbbing of his pulse, tied to his temple and his throat, kept him too preoccupied to care. It had been so long, _too_ long since Shiro had felt anything near this level of excitement. Lance’s unfaltering smile was a reassuring reminder that this stranger wanted him, too.

_Lance wanted him._

Shiro threw his head back as Lance navigated through throngs, the alcohol in his system rich and fully present, his tolerance more than caving under the pressure of too many drinks. It felt better than he wanted to admit, and when he closed his eyes, it felt even _better_ , Lance’s fingers warm and the music pleasantly dull. When he finally let his head drop forward, eyes wandering over Lance’s head, he felt a sense of faint recognition. Lance was dragging them to one of the countless restrooms.

Proper, proper Shiro didn’t give a single fuck. He’d lost his discretion or whatever remained of it.

It was fantastic.

For once, he didn’t care about anything past the feel of Lance’s skin and the sound of his voice. Shallow as that was, it was liberating. Being around a stranger who didn’t judge you for your past—who didn’t _know_ your past—was the freedom Shiro didn’t know he needed. Lance was perfect for the role, too, because not once had he shown hesitation when it came to Shiro’s arm or his scar or the white in his hair; he rolled with it. Whether that was the alcohol blurring his judgement or not, Shiro didn’t want to think about it.

Lance accepted him for whatever the hell he was, and he wanted him _still._

Soon enough, he was pushed past the swaying door of the men’s bathroom, and into its dimly lit, sleek black interior. It seemed to match the bar outside, Shiro noticed idly as Lance tugged them into each other, the sinks lined along an ebony countertop that glistened under subtle turquoise light, licking lines across their profiles. Lance walked backwards, lip caught between his teeth as he glanced at Shiro, purposefully knotting two fists into the front of Shiro’s dark button down, the bass from outside diluted and far.

Not fighting the movement, Shiro stepped forward, his body looming over Lance’s leaner frame. The man was far from short, and while he was not quite Shiro’s height, there was a certain gracefulness that paired itself with the movements of long limbs. Those arms, though, seemed out of commission as Lance tucked them against Shiro’s chest. Their faces seemed close enough for Shiro’s drunk mind to register Lance’s scent, and the subtle nuances in his expression.

“Hey there, stranger, fancy catching you on this side of the dance floor.”

It was the first time Shiro heard his voice— _actually_ heard it, without music overlaying the hum. It was lighter than he thought it would be, a little lofty around the edges, even when Lance’s purr was purposely lowered and breathed against the expanse of his face. _Matches him,_ he thought, allowing his hands to find the soft tangent of Lance’s waist. He rolled a thumb against the masculine curve, enjoying the way blue eyes fluttered only _just._

Shiro’s grin was loose, uncharacteristically carefree and characteristically gentle, “likewise, stranger.”

Lance leant up into him, his breath stuttering and grip holding itself a little tighter. No, he didn’t need to stand higher, but he did for some reason, tucking their bodies and lining their noses, pulling Shiro backward towards the counter. “ _God,”_ he breathed, eyes blinded by his tunneled focus on Shiro’s lips. It was hard not to notice, and when the small of Lance’s back slid against the ebony edge, Shiro’s eyes dropped to trace his as well. They were a pretty tangerine, dark and dew-lined from either alcohol or balm or the tongue that ran them over. “Your cologne is _gorgeous_.”

Shiro paused, before breathing out a laugh, forehead pressing into the break of Lance’s neck. “You really shouldn’t say that type of stuff,” it was muttered, but loud enough for both of them to hear in the empty restroom, “makes me want to kiss you.”

He felt Lance’s hands slide open against his chest, “Won’t catch _me_ opposed to it.”

Shiro lifted his head, slow enough not to make the room spin but quick enough for Lance’s expression to do just that. His chin was tipped, looking up at Shiro with knowing eyes and a smile that was a little too asymmetrical for comfort, parted only slightly to let out strokes of breath. 

So Shiro kissed him.

He leant forward, unhesitant and smooth and trained, pressing their lips in a sweeping movement that saw Lance’s palms fly up to float by his jaw, the heel brushing along it, almost as though he hadn’t been anticipating the kiss. It wasn’t rushed by any means, and had them standing still for a long, undisturbed moment, with Lance’s lower lip tucked between his own, a pretty swell of color tasting of whiskey and rum. Shiro’s breath drew itself in a single string through his nose.

Lance’s palms landed themselves fully onto his face, his lips drawing away with a sweet smile. Shiro hadn’t seen it, his eyes holding themselves closed, but he’d _felt_ it—on the ends of the kiss and in the gentle laugh Lance let loose a moment afterward. Shiro blinked, confused, and drunkenly petulant.

“What is it?”

“Nothing I didn’t expect,” Lance hadn’t pulled too far, tipping his head to the side to brush their lips again. Depth replaced amusement in his whisper, the thumb on Shiro’s chin used to lower his jaw. “You kiss like a gentleman.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Usually? No.” Lance smirked, his words hitching with a breathless quality, gaze dipping briefly to trace the seams of Shiro’s open mouth, before flicking up to graze his eyes, pointed _._ He found Shiro’s alloyed hand with blind ease, tucking a thumb into its palm before sliding it down his own form, past the rise of a keen hipbone, arched under metallic fingers, and past the dip of its juncture. Shiro couldn’t feel it, couldn’t even look down to find out, because Lance’s eyes held him in place and drew a swallow from his throat.

When a denim thigh tucked itself high against his waist, Shiro wasn’t left guessing what Lance had done with the arm.

“Now?” he bit his lip through a smirk, dark lips lighter under the pressure, his eyes unblinking; there was more air than voice in the word—“ _Absolutely.”_

There was something distinctly intimidating about Lance, Shiro decided, looking at him under the blue indirects, watching the indent in his cheek and the curve of his stomach, body arched inward against marble. Something that left his bloodstream simmering with _want_ and fear and the odd desire to combine the two against the bow of Lance’s lips as a set of sounds. When he found his voice, it was bent inward and hoarse, “Nothing you can’t remedy, I’m guessing?”

Shiro’s grip on Lance’s thigh tightened at the sight of his growing smirk.

It was a religious feeling, when open mouths met at a pace Shiro didn’t know existed, veins throbbing louder than the gentle breaths pushed against numb teeth and aching gums. The lines of their bodies dissolved, joints locking, the creases of their clothing lost at every angle where they met, that same smell of coconut plaiting itself into Shiro’s conscious, inhaled through the nose he pressed against Lance’s paint damp cheek. It was diluted, much like the sounds around them—far from them, thrumming against the edges of tile and marble—and Lance tasted like the whiskey he’d had and the remnants of Shiro’s own drink.

A drink he’d forgotten in favor of Lance’s bourbon lips.

_Drunken poetry, nice._

That was the skeleton of the kiss—fast paced, all rolling tongue and taste and lack of restraint—and Shiro realized it was one of the few moments where he hadn’t bothered _thinking_. No, he hadn’t thought of how his human hand had found the open rise of Lance’s other thigh, how he’d hefted him higher against his own chest. He hadn’t thought of the sound Lance had made, or that smile that rolled open along his lips, or the colorful paint dyeing every angle of their faces as they moved; Shiro decided he was much happier when he didn’t _think._ At least not about anything past the way strong fingers gripped at his upper arms, climbing up his neck, into his hair, and down again.

Lance dipped his back and fell away with a wet sound, his legs locked behind Shiro, who didn’t remember lifting him onto the counter to begin with.

 _“_ Shit, _shit—”_ His forehead lolled against Shiro’s throat as he laughed, sounding breathless and a little victorious, “You sure are _something_ aren’t ya, sweetheart?”

Shiro’s air was scarce as well, and he found his own eyes in the mirror behind Lance. It was easy to trace how much of a mess he was, hair damp and run through, pale face stained twelve different shades of pressed red and neon-dye. Winded seemed like the just term for it. He blinked downward after a moment, finding the curved lines of Lance’s bare waist and the tattoo that sat at the base of his neck, a sharp, stylized _v_ that held no immediate meaning.

“It’s Shiro.” He spoke finally, his voice like loose gravel.

Lance hummed a laugh against his collarbone, and Shiro didn’t care that the first couple of buttons were tugged open. “Oh, is that what they call you?”

“’s what you should call me.”

Lance raised his head, pressing a set of dry kisses under Shiro’s ear and along his jaw. The teasing grin was obvious in his voice, “I dunno. I think I like mami better, _mah-mi.”_

Shiro made a deep sound, something like both protest and agreement at the same time. _I’m drunker than I thought._ “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Lance sung, looking up at Shiro from where his head rested along the man’s shoulder, eyes lidded with challenge and amusement, “What’cha gonna do about it?”

Lance lost his expression, had it replaced with stark shock and pupil-dilated desire—all at the angled smile Shiro tossed him.

“I’m going to make you say my name, _sweetheart._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next up: an _actual plot_ \+ some moody keith to cleanse the soul
> 
> hope you liked this chapter! i didn't proof it, so feel free to point out any mistakes :) 
> 
> ps. matt totally walked into that bathroom and walked right out let me tell you -


	3. bracelets

Keith stared down at his phone, his eyes a flat swatch of color tracing the surface of a wrecked screen. The image was barely visible, name distorted beyond recognition as it rang—it didn’t matter, the voicemail rung loud and clear. He grit his teeth, standing in the middle of the corridor, his leather bomber and steel-toes looking out of place amidst soft looking moquette and pale walls. _Gods,_ he hated where Shiro lived with fucking vigor, from the glossy widows to the twenty-fourth floor. Giving up, Keith cancelled his nth call, watching a picture of a young Shiro fade into the contact list.

He wasted zero time in slamming his palm against the door in front of him.

It was no secret that Keith had his limits, and albeit easy to reach, they were relatively justified the majority of the time. After all, he liked to think of himself as a good person, one who skips town but makes sure his adoptive brother isn’t dead behind an alleyway dumpster after a wild night out. Shiro didn’t party, and Shiro wasn’t the clubbing type—and as far as Keith was aware, he hadn’t done either in years. _For good reason,_ he thought, the frown on his face deepening. He couldn’t blame him, because after what Shiro had seen—

_Don’t think about that shit right now, Kogane._

Keith pounded the door with his open palm, slipping the cracked phone into the pocket of his jacket, the interior lining no longer as soft as it used to be.

“Open up, ‘kashi!” he hissed, glaring at the ceiling. If Shiro wasn’t as strong a person as Keith knew him to be, he’d probably feed into the whole _dead behind a dumpster_ possibility. It wasn’t like he expected a call every time Shiro went out for a beer, but Shiro had the tendency to fill him in, call him at least if his night didn’t go as planned. That was the routine they quietly fell into when both moved back to the city, that was their unspoken agreement: Keith texted Shiro to reassure him he didn’t crash on the highway, and Shiro called him to complain about Holt and co.

What Keith hadn’t expected to hear—from _Holt_ , no less—was that Shiro had gone home with someone.

Shiro had gotten drunk, let loose and let himself fall into a random person’s bed last night. Normal for everyone else, but certainly not what Keith was used to. No, he wasn’t used to getting Shiro-intel from fucking outside sources rather than the man himself; it worried Keith more than he wanted to admit. _You better be fine, Shiro, or I’ll maul you._

Ignoring the contradiction, Keith rolled his jaw, keeping it hung in annoyance. “Come _on,_ man!”

Before he could land another open palm on the door, it swung open. Shiro glared down at him in all the agitated glory of a hungover man, the bags stamping his eyes speaking more of fitful sleep than insomnia. Keith aptly avoided the suggestive bruises that watermarked Shiro’s bare torso—from scratch marks to purple stains—and focused instead on the smear of neon that ran up his arm and across parts of his face. Keith met unamused grey with his own brand of cocky, “Wild night, ‘kashi?”

“You are stupidly loud.”

Keith scoffed, tucking both palms into the pockets of his jacket, body leant back slightly, “Someone had too much to drink.”

“What gave it away?” Shiro deadpanned. Keith didn’t comment right away, but as his eyes skimmed back and forth between Shiro’s, he noted that this really wasn’t the type of attitude people had after getting laid. He knew better, though—Keith knew exactly what it was that made the man like this, and a hangover wasn’t it. _I probably woke him up from something horrible._ Without another word, Keith pushed past him into the apartment. He wasn’t about to pick a fight, not with Shiro and not over this.

The place was neat, it normally was, from the sleek marble of the open plan kitchenette to the deep shine of glazed leather couches, curtains drawn and saturated with sunlight, dying the room a dull apricot. Everything about the sight made Keith’s vexation thrive—he never cared about the value of things, but being in a place like this, with it’s avant-grade fixtures and wooden floors, made him feel incredibly out of place. Keith was used to the other’s tastes, though—hell, _Shiro_ was the one who spoilt him, replaced his phones whenever he destroyed them, sending him gifts at random. Keith generally couldn’t care less about the glamour of it all, and yet—

 _—lost boy, dropout_.

He heard Shiro close the door behind him, padding back into the space, agitation coming off of him in waves. Keith rested the small of his back against the kitchen bar, crossing both his ankles and his arms as he glanced back at the other. “Bad night or bad sleep?”

Shiro stared him down, long and hard and unfriendly, before his expression softened. He was always hostile, Keith noticed, after particularly vivid nightmares. Keith accepted every glare and hiss and curl of the lip, because he knew it was usually a matter of minutes before Shiro’s guard fell to the dust and he realized who he was dealing with. “Bad sleep. My night was fine.”

“Yeah?” Keith cocked an eyebrow, letting it rise and fall in a quick twitch.

“Yeah.” Shiro sighed, running a palm through his sweat damp hair, other hand left resting on his hip, loose over the waistband of black satin pajama pants. He swallowed, eyes fluttering with exhaustion, “I’m—I’m going to shower. Almond milk’s in the fridge as always, and don’t touch the fruit yogurt, it’s full cream.”

Keith’s blink was slow and unamused. “Lactose intolerance doesn’t stop me from knowing how to read.”

“No harm in making sure.” Shiro cracked a halfhearted smile. “Besides, you always forget to eat. You know where to find the granola?”

“ _Yes,_ ‘kashi.” Keith’s eyes widened, his expression bordering on incredulous as he waved Shiro off, “go, shoo, shower or whatever. I’m not exactly a rare guest here.”

And he wasn’t.

Keith had only been back for a month or so, but it seemed like he was at Shiro’s more often than he wasn’t, mooching off his food and crashing on his couch, much like they had before Keith went off to university and Shiro went off on his own.

He hated to admit it, but habits were harder to break than he thought; watching Shiro’s strong back retreat into the bedroom, Keith pretended he didn’t miss living together.

Sure, personal space was a blessing, even in the shithole apartment he rented out—but there was something bittersweet about standing there in the diluted sunlight, wishing he hadn’t dropped out, wishing Shiro hadn’t seen what he did. Time was a bitch, and it was the one thing he couldn’t control. With a final huff of irritation, more at himself than anything, Keith twisted on his heel and made his way behind the marble of the kitchenette, making a grab for the kettle and coffee.

One of the few really shitty things Keith _could_ make. The kitchen was not his domain, not even close.

He ignored the way the shower ran for longer than it should - than it normally did, focusing on the dense smell of beans instead of how much it bothered him to see Shiro like this. Keith was not the type to generally care, not that he’d had many friends or family to care for over the years. People’s hurt went soaring over his head like badly told jokes and obnoxious flirting: he was neither apt at detecting it, or empathetic enough to remedy it.

When it came to Shiro, though, the pieces shifted.

Enough to bring Keith back to a town he’d sworn off.

Shiro was, and always would be, Keith’s exception. He sighed, listening to the water boil, hand in palm as his body arched off the marble. There was something off, other than the usual though, and it was bothering him more than Keith wanted to acknowledge. Yes, Shiro was hostile after an episode—but the distinct lack of _company_ in the flat, paired with that uncharacteristic bout of disappointment that seemed to wash over the atmosphere, told Keith a lot more had gone down than just a hangover.

It wasn’t long after that, that he heard Shiro drag himself back out, damp hair falling into his face, unbrushed. Keith spared him one look, before pouring out two mugs of tar black. He didn’t try to change the flatness in his tone, “You look like shit.”

Shiro huffed out a laugh, free of humor as he threw himself into a barstool, drawing the drink in with both hands. “At least I look clean—not sure when you showered last, honestly.”

“Cute comeback, jackass.” Keith raised an eyebrow, half smirk in place. It fell the moment he took a look at how disheveled Shiro looked dressed in sweats and a whole lot of regret, staring at his reflection in the coffee rather than back at Keith.

Feeling semi-guilty about it, Keith let the silence between them settle a little longer, taking a long swallow off his drink, hating taste and the warmth almost as much as he hated else about this damn situation. The tension was more bitter than the coffee, and that told him heaps.

Shiro didn’t make a move to do the same, lips as far as can be from the rim of his mug. 

 _Conversationalist isn’t my job title, but I might as well,_ Keith’s mouth curled in an uncomfortable slant _._ “Heard from Holt you ditched him at the club. Anything noteworthy?”

Shiro’s gaze flicked up to him, sharp and a little cautious. “No.”

The biggest issue was hardly the awkwardness; it was the glaring lack of subtlety. Something was swimming under that edge, and Keith didn’t know what to do with that information. “Thought you left with someone.”

Grey eyes lid with an unfriendliness that told him to drop the topic. “I did.”

Keith’s own eyes fell into their usual slant, mild irritation fastened between his brows. Shiro was not the type that asked him to back off often, if at all—but he _was_ the type that kept things tight in his mind, hidden from sight, shouldering everything as though he had half the strength to do that. Shiro, despite what most people thought, was relatively fragile internally; Keith of all people knew that, and if something happened last night, if _someone_ hurt him, Keith was more than willing to bruise and break ribs.

“—and?” he pressed, unwilling to let it go. Keith tried his best to school tone his into patience. “Holt said you’re really into them or something.”

“Was.” Shiro scoffed out a laugh, sadder than he probably intended for it to sound.

Keith frowned, “What?”

“ _Was._ ” He repeated, sighing into his coffee after taking the first sip since sitting down. “Was into him, past tense. Until he didn’t stay for breakfast, that is.”

_Oh._

_The moodiness makes sense_ , Keith supposed, especially if Shiro was invested. One night stands weren’t something Keith batted an eye at—some people were like that, the type to jump ship after banging, and he couldn’t say it was _wrong_. It sucked for the other person, sure, but everyone’s free to do whatever the hell they want. For the first time, though, he felt budding annoyance at the hedonistic lifestyle.

_Why Shiro, of all people—_

He was a good guy, and whoever he managed to fuck was certainly missing out. Bias be damned, Keith would always put Shiro on a pedestal and bare his teeth at anyone who decided to challenge that particular set of beliefs.

All that in mind, Keith’s anger reached its boiling point. He could only imagine what Shiro had to deal with in one night and the morning after—fast company, hangovers, and a nightmare.

Nightmare.

Keith’s gaze flicked to Shiro’s low-angled shoulders, tracing their hopeless arrowhead slope. Emphatic and insensitive as it was, he couldn’t help snapping, “Did you take your meds this morning?”

Shiro’s glare was beyond incredulous, exasperation written into every line of his features. “Do I _look_ like I have?”

Keith took it in stride—it was out of character, but he figured the man deserved to be a little annoyed on a morning like this. With a lung-deep sigh, Keith rolled his eyes, cocking his head at Shiro like he would a child. “Where are they?”

“Bedside table.”

“Stay put.” The warning was useless, seeing that Shiro wouldn’t move away anyway, what with the deep scowl he was giving his mug. Keith sardonically wondered if it could shatter under that sort of pressure alone.

He didn’t waste much time, hopping over the long island, feet practiced in missing contact, before walking his way over to Shiro’s bedroom. Keith wasn’t his babysitter, nothing close to that—their relationship was more Shiro babying _him,_ if anything. But Keith supposed there were some days where everyone needed a figure to lean on. _It’s why I’m back, remember?_

Shiro’s bedroom was in line with the rest of the flat’s décor, the wide bed laced with rumpled off-white sheets and a rolled up black duvet, floor made of the same hardwood. He didn’t care enough to marvel any further than that, making a beeline for one of the small bedsides, lined with reflective orange pill bottles and doctor-invoices. Keith let his hand hover over all of them, his mind already well versed in knowing which was which.

Dropout or not, Keith prided himself on being a quick learner.

 _Red, red, white, red—where is it,_ he frowned at the lids, looking for telltale purple and not finding it. He took a step closer, allowing himself to fiddle with the bottles for longer, reaching to read the labels, dropping them haphazardly. Maybe the prescription had changed, or something. It was unlikely, but then again the only bottle that was missing was the one he was looking for—until the sound or rolling pills and plastic hit the toe of his boot. Keith stopped, looking down at where his foot had taken another even closer step, the purple of a pill bottle lid making him smirk.

_There you are._

In one smooth drop, he fell into a stable squat, picking up the container to roll it palm. Before Keith could push upwards, though, a swatch of blue caught the corner of his eye—thin and slight and braided against the dark floor, dyed a worn shade of navy. Brown beads - scraped from age - hung at the ends, hugging the fraying fabric, pressing against amateur knots. Keith’s eyes widened gradually, before falling into a narrow, keen slant, mouth curled on one end, high enough to showoff the outline of sharp, crooked teeth.

The hiss was low, breathed more than spoken, rolling out in time for his ire to boil. “You’ve got to be _fucking_ kidding me.”

It was a bracelet.

_Not just any goddamn brace—_

“Keith?”

Right before Shiro could walk in, Keith reached out to pocket it, letting the braid sit in the palm of his hand, cradled by the rough fabric of his jacket pocket. _Fuck,_ was the only thing his mind supplied unhelpfully. He was grateful that he was the type that recomposed without much trouble. Keith got up and turned around in a single, casual pirouette, facing Shiro who stood leaning against the doorframe with a curious frown.

“You were taking long, did you find it?”

Keith threw him a tight smile, thumb stroking the hidden accessory, his other hand offering the pill bottle with a shake. It seemed infinitely heavier for some reason. “Yeah, it was on the ground—guessing it fell over when you were getting busy, beast.”

Shiro groaned, throwing a palm over his face. “Please shut up, Keith.”

 

* * *

 

 

Keith was not the smartest person out there, and he was confident enough to admit that openly. He relied on instinct to do his bidding, and gut feelings to make his choices—neither had failed him yet. Alongside the naturals, though, he was nothing - _nothing_ \- if not observant. Crass, maybe; dense, slightly—but when it came down to the things he deemed important, Keith redefined perceptiveness. Knotting his fingers into the bracelet in his pocket, he frowned— _perceptive_.

Whether he wanted to admit it or not, the piece was a familiar one. It was older than he recalled, a little more threadbare, its edges faded with - if he was correct about the owner, anyway - sea salt. Keith was not one to make assumptions, much less accusations, but there was one person out there who owned a bracelet that looked like that. A handmade plait of garbage—and Keith, of all the fucking people out there, should know. Would know.

 _Did_ know.

He sighed, aggravated. He’d run out on Shiro after pressing the bottle into his palm with a forced smile, teeth dug into the corners of his lips. There was no way he could handle casual conversation at that point, not with his mind working overtime. Keith needed, at least for his own bitter satisfaction, to know whether this shitty thing really belonged to who he thought it did.

Sometimes, he hated how small the world could be.

He huffed through clenched teeth, bringing the bracelet out for the nth time, rolling the fabric about the pad of his thumb. Giving in, Keith slid it onto his wrist, feet falling heavier against the pavement. Part of him didn’t really want to think about it anymore, briefly considering tossing off the highway next time he was on his bike. _Too late for that today,_ he thought, tearing his wrist from sight in favor of digging around for his apartment keys.

He’d parked his bike a block down the road, where he knew he wouldn’t get shit for five-am engine revving. Not that Keith generally cared what his neighbors thought, but maybe being a dick early on wouldn’t earn him the brownie points he needed to stay on his landlord’s good side. Pulling out the nearly empty keychain, he flung it round and round on his finger, an orbit of manifest inquietude.

His place was far less impressive than Shiro—not that he expected or wanted to live the same life as a ex-governmental. It was a modest five floor building for the most part, in the seedier ring of the city, its paint a dull grey lined with fissures and climbing vines that no one bothered ripping off. Keith, just like with most things, ignored its appearance and climbed the staircase to his own flat.

No carpeted flooring, no spy-holes.

Simple, just like he liked it.

Keith pushed his thoughts to the side much like he pushed the door open—and promptly let it close behind him, eyes drawn to the windowsill, the room hollowed out with winter wind. Before Keith could really bitch internally, though, his gaze weighed itself down on the figure propped and crosslegged on the ledge, grey hood up tossed over their head. Closing his eyes, Keith breathed out a patient sigh.

He should be used to this by now, he supposed. The tapping of a keyboard was the soundtrack of his life at this point.

_That’s the saddest reality I’ve ever accepted, wow._

“Eventually, you’ll learn to lock your doors.” Pidge said finally, not turning around to acknowledge Keith’s entrance. Their voice was a mix of veiled amusement and distraction, typical of their normal interactions. “Someone’s gonna rob you one of these days, Kogane.”

He gave into the urge to roll his eyes, tossing his keys onto the worn living room table. It wasn’t as though Keith owned much, nothing of value save his bike keys and the headphones that ate up half Shiro’s graduation present for him. Not that either were in danger, given they were on his person the majority of the time anyway.“And what’ll they take exactly? My vintage cracked coffee mug, or my aesthetic Speed Racer underwear?”

“That’s pretty valuable stuff,” they throw back monotonously, letting one leg fall to dangle off the edge, knee hooked and swinging in the air. “I’d give half a lung for those boxers, just so you know.”

Keith scoffed, shoulders shrugging off the jacket, letting it fall onto the back of a beat up couch, noting the bare motherboard that was tucked between the cushions, cracked and played with. He walked over, dropping next to Pidge with his legs spread wide, hands perched between them against the lip of the ledge.

Letting the air fold neatly against his expression, Keith faced forward, watching a lone car pass by. “Sorry, I only accept cash, credit or the souls of the damned.”

“Drats.” Pidge drawled, but Keith could see a faint smile tugging at the flat expression from the corner of his eyes. “Forever foiled.”

“Don’t be modest—your soul’s _plenty_ damned.”

“Bite me, punk rocker.” This time, Pidge lets their gaze flick sideways, studying Keith with an amused smile. The smile didn’t seem to last, though, and soon enough the suspicious slant touched the corner of their eyes. Long, gaunt fingers rolled against the frame of computer, sliding the screen to a soft-clicked close. “So, wanna tell me what happened?”

Keith let his gaze fall forward. “Nothing.”

“Somehow, I don’t find myself believing that anytime soon.”

This time, he didn’t stop his eyes from rolling. “And somehow, I don’t buy the fact Holt doesn’t tell you shit.”

Pidge sighed, tossing their laptop backwards a decent distance, not looking to see if it landed safely onto the couch or not. It did. Keith - had he not known them better - would’ve probably felt inclined to question their methods. They turned to him completely, legs woven and crossed. “First, you say that like I’m not a Holt myself. Two, sure he does - but that doesn’t mean Shiro tells him everything.”

Keith scoffed, his head nodding in loose incredulity. “And you’re convinced he tells me?”

“Tells you a whole lot more than the rest of us, that’s for sure.”

Biting his lip, Keith turned to study the expectant expression that made home on Pidge’s features, practiced. Relenting, he let his shoulders sag, “The hell do you want from me?”

“A story - the lack of indirect drama in my life is tragic, really.”

“You’re actually an awful human being.”

“Not getting out of it, _Koganie-gane_ ,” they sung through a smirk, neck craned forward. “You look like you hate your life, a little more so than usual and—” a quick flick of their eyes tore up Keith’s body in one calculative sweep, “and I can’t say it hasn’t piqued my interest.”

Keith threw a glare over his shoulder. “You already _know_ what happened, pretty sure Matt filled you in. What else do you want to know?”

“Oh, nothing much, really,” Pidge hummed in faux thought, finger crooked against their chin, eyes sky bound. With a sharp flick, that brown gaze found his, and Keith felt that familiar, thundering feeling of uncertainty make its way into the exchange. “How's about we start simple—why the _fuck_ are you wearing your ex’s cheap jewelry?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> update: i love keith 
> 
> lmao so i'm back from the war hello. sorry guys, just started up uni again and typed this up on the plane ride home since i completely forgot about this fic - interesting experience let me tell you :')
> 
> regardless, hope you enjoyed it! i'll try and sort myself out enough to actually post more often than my lovely 5-month schedule haah
> 
> comment for my attempted cliffhanger?? no???

**Author's Note:**

> please tell me what you guys thought of it! im kinda unsure whether or not to continue it (have a loose plan), so feedback would be amazing! :)
> 
> come talk to me on tumblr, too! ([@killerkuroo](https://killerkuroo.tumblr.com/))


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